Page 28 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

S ince I was a kid, I’ve always spent most of my free time at the rugby pitch.

Mostly because my dad was there, but also because it’s one of my favorite places to be.

Dad brought me along to practices, and as I got older, I tagged along so I could hang out with the guys and observe as they practiced.

Since becoming a student at Prescott, instead of using the library to study or do homework, I just pop my headphones in and sit in the stands. On the days I’m not participating with the coaching staff that is.

But today, the real reason I’m at the pitch pretending to focus on studying for anatomy is so I can watch Cillian practice.

I’m officially that girl.

The one who shows up to rugby practice just to see the hottest guy on the team and has read the same exact paragraph at least three times but can’t remember a single word of what she read.

I’m irrationally, stupidly turned on watching him run down the pitch in his black sleeveless practice shirt, the one that’s cut down to the waist on his sides and shows the toned, chiseled muscles of his obliques as he moves.

It’s nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before, but it’s different watching Cillian on the pitch. He’s captivating, and I can’t take my eyes off him, my heart pounding in my chest nearly in sync with the dull throb in my core.

His movements are instinctual and quick as he catches the ball and runs toward the sidelines, drawing out the defenders.

He has two options: he can offload to Fitz or he can break the line and go for the try.

My thighs clench together on their own accord as I watch him blow past Wren, successfully breaking through the line.

My brain can’t even comprehend how someone who’s so solidly muscled can have such speed and agility. His footwork is almost graceful as he moves down the pitch toward the try line.

God, it’s hot.

He’s hot.

So. Fucking. Hot.

Seeing him in action is inherently better than watching tape or hearing about how good he is.

“Rory?” a voice calls from beside me, and I practically jump out of my skin. The textbook in my lap falls to the ground at my feet and my pen goes flying.

Whipping my head to the side I see Dad standing there, his brow furrowed in worry. I was so lost in my Cillian daydream that I didn’t even hear him walk up.

“S-sorry. Yes?” I say a little too loudly, pasting on a smile as searing heat floods my cheeks. “You scared me.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he drops down onto the seat next to me. He places his clipboard beside him and reaches for my fallen textbook, then hands it back to me. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Everything good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” I swallow, willing myself not to glance back at Cillian on the pitch.

His brow lifts as his gaze bounces over my face, searching for something. “You seem… distracted the last few times I’ve seen you. I just wanted to check on you, sweetheart.”

Of course he’d noticed that I’ve been… preoccupied lately; he knows me better than anyone.

But it isn’t as if I could tell him that I’ve been with Cillian, so I just shrug, leaning into his shoulder with a grin.

“All good. I’ve just been busy with class and stuff.”

“Okay, well, if you need anything you know I’m here.

I was thinking we have a team dinner at the house in a couple weeks?

It’s been a while,” he says as he drags his attention back toward the pitch, where the guys are currently breaking and talking with Coach Matthews.

“Seems like we’re finally moving in the right direction. ”

I nod, humming quietly. “Yeah. Practice has been so much… better.”

The guys have started to incorporate Cillian more, making passes, talking to him as if he’s their friend and not just the unwanted new guy, and it makes me happy to see them making progress.

“Wanna help me coordinate dinner? You know they’re all going to ask for those damn cookies you spoil them with.” Dad chuckles as he runs his hand over his salt-and-pepper beard and shakes his head.

He loves those cookies just as much as the boys do, but I stopped making them as frequently since his doctor said his cholesterol was higher than the safe range for his age. Someone’s got to take care of him.

“Of course,” I reply, a sudden pang of guilt rising inside me when I think of how much I’ve been absent recently. “How about we do a movie night this weekend and hang out? I’m sorry things have been crazy lately, but I miss you.”

His eyes soften, crinkling slightly in the corners as he lovingly bumps his shoulder into mine. “I’d never turn down a movie night, sweetheart. I’m going to get back out there and wrap up practice, but I’ll see you this weekend?”

His arm slides around my shoulder. He pulls me against him, and I feel his lips press against my hair softly.

“Sounds good, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

After he leaves, I reopen my anatomy textbook and attempt to resume studying, but I don’t get very far—I still can’t focus. When practice ends and the guys head toward the locker room, I slam the book shut and gather all my things, shoving them into my backpack.

I guess this means I’ll be up late studying since I got absolutely nothing done and this test is worth way too much of my grade for me to fail.

But… so worth it.

I make my way off the training pitch and inside the athletic building. Inside I see Cillian walk out of the locker room.

His hair is wet and pushed back off his forehead from his shower, and he’s wearing a fresh, sweat-free Prescott Rugby T-shirt with a pair of athletic shorts that hug his thick thighs. The ink on his arms seems even darker with his skin flushed from the hot shower he just took.

When he spots me, a lazy grin overtakes his face and his eyes move over me, making my skin hum from the attention.

I swear, I can almost feel the warmth of his gaze as it travels down my body, caressing each inch of me unabashedly.

I glance around, checking that we’re still alone, and then I walk the length of the hallway in a few strides until I stop short in front of him.

He lifts a brow in surprise when I grab his hand, yanking him into the closest room I can find and slamming the door shut behind us.

Coincidentally, the equipment room.

A room I’m technically familiar with but couldn’t tell him the first thing about.

Like where the light even is.

It’s dark, but not entirely. There’s a dim glow shining in from the sliver of space between the threshold and door that offers some light. It’s a pretty small space, lined with shelves for equipment and little room for anything else, which means Cillian’s almost pressed against my front.

I can feel the heat radiating off his massive body and smell the clean, masculine scent of his bodywash, and it makes me nearly dizzy.

Especially after I’ve spent the last hour practically panting as I spectated.

“Hi,” I breathe, my gaze traveling up to his face.

He chuckles, amusement dancing in his hazel eyes as he takes a single step closer. “St. James. Any reason we’re hiding in the… closet?”

I step back slightly, dropping my backpack to the floor somewhere near my feet and my back hits the shelf behind me, noisily jostling the equipment on it.

“Equipment room. Not a closet.”

Cillian laughs, the delicious sound washing over me. He reaches for a lock of my hair, casually twirling a strand around his finger. “Yeah? Why are we hiding in the equipment room then, baby?”

Baby?

That’s a first.

I love that entirely too much. Like, an embarrassing amount. Now I’m convinced there’s quite literally nothing sexier than hearing Cillian Cairney call you baby in that deep, raspy English accent of his.

“I—I—” I stutter, promptly shutting my mouth because I’m not entirely sure why I did drag us in here. Okay, yes I do. Because I wanted to have him alone and couldn’t wait another second once I saw how ridiculously hot he looked fresh out of the locker room. “I don’t… know.”

I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, staring up at him.

His eyes seem to darken as he steps forward and lifts his other hand and places it on the shelf behind me, bracketing my head. The corner of his lip curves up in a sexy smirk. “I think you do know.”

I gulp, trying to breathe steadily but failing, each inhale coming quicker than the last. He closes the little space left between us, molding to the front of me with every hard, sculpted muscle of his body and my pulse goes haywire.

I try to squeeze my thighs together, but his knee slides between them, stopping me.

“And you know what else I think?” he rasps, moving one hand to my chin and grasping it between his fingers.

“I think that you watched me on the pitch today and it turned you on. Every time I looked into the stands, your eyes were on me, St. James. I think that’s why you keep trying to press those pretty thighs together.

Because it aches, doesn’t it?” He trails his fingers from my chin, gently down my neck, where his massive, rough palm curves around my throat.

The pads of his fingers create the most subtle hint of pressure, enough to have me squirming, and then he trails them lower, fingertips dancing over my collarbone.

Goose bumps erupt on my flesh, and my lips part as I suck in a stuttering pant. He’s barely touched me, and my nipples are taut and pebbled almost painfully against my sports bra.

Leaning closer, his mouth dips to my ear. “If you wanted me to touch you, baby, all you had to do was ask.” His warm breath on my neck has a violent shiver running down my spine. “I think that if I slipped my fingers into your panties right now, I’d see just how wet you are for me.”

I’m almost embarrassed to admit how wet I am. How I’m throbbing , a deep, achy feeling spreading in my lower belly with each beat of my heart. My skin feels like it’s on fire, a live wire of lust coursing through me and making my limbs heavy.

I swallow roughly. When I can finally form words, my voice comes out low and shaky. “What if I was?”